To You Whom I Once Called Brother
by butterfly-truths
Summary: How could they not see it? How could they have let that thing pull wool over their eyes so easily? How could they not see that this United States was a sham, a sick joke. That the United States, the Alfred F. Jones that the world had first discovered hadn't been around for decades, for centuries? How could he not know when he was the catalyst that had brought him into this world?


To You Whom I Once Called Brother

How could they not see it? How could they have let that _thing_ pull wool over their eyes so easily? How could they not see that this United States was a sham, a sick joke. That the United States, the Alfred F. Jones that the world had first discovered hadn't been around for decades, for centuries?

Matthew knew the truth. It manifested as a deep gaping hole in his heart. a mar on his soul. It burned in the back of his mind, an ever present whisper that squeezed his throat. Of course only Matthew would know that the America sitting between Romano and Japan, the America that constantly blew off his responsibilities, that never got along with England- was a fake.

How could he not when he was the catalyst that had brought him into this world?

Some days were easier than others. This America ignored his presence along with the rest of the world, allowing Matthew in turn to ignore him. Some days he could pretend that this America truly was his other half when he'd flash one of those bright smiles or his eyes twinkled with childish mischief. If only for a while, Matthew could pretend, but he could never forget. Would never forget what he'd done.

Today he couldn't ignore the pain. Not when it was so startlingly clear to Matthew that this America shouldn't exist that he was dumbfounded that nobody else pointed it out. How could England, who had raised him for decades, not see that this America wasn't the same one who had slept contentedly, curled within his arms? That he had no memory of such events.

How could France not tell that the America who was currently arguing with him- that this boy was not the same boy who had begged for assistance in breaking from England's Empire?

 _How, how can you all not see it? His eyes aren't the right shade. They're too bright, too blinding. His skin is too pale, don't you see? It's nothing like the deep tan he should have, the reminder of who he was before you all came. How can you not see that that is not the same boy you fought countless wars over? How is it that you are all so blind?_

 _Why can't I be blind as well?_

The guilt was too much on this special day. It sang in his ears, " _Look, look at what you have created~"_. He couldn't look at those eyes or hear that obnoxious laugh without feeling sick to his stomach. He could barely see the table before him, the flickering of memories teasing at the back of his mind, unable to be held back any longer.

Nobody noticed when Matthew stood and left. Then again, no one had ever really noticed him all that much. Storming out of the building he hailed the first taxi he saw. There was only one stop made before arriving at the final destination. He was outside the city now, away from all the hustle and bustle. Here he could finally breathe again. He was at a small park, but there were no children or parents to be seen; everyone either at work or school. This suited Matthew just fine. He didn't know if he could face one of his brother's children with the weight of what he'd done sitting so precariously on his shoulders.

He made his way to the back of the park, to an ancient oak tree that towered above everything else in the area. Matthew's hand subconsciously rose to run the pad of his thumb over the timeworn carving near the base of the tree. It was barely there, but he could still make out the faintest outlines of the word: AFJ.

Setting the bag he had been holding down onto the ground he slumped against the rough bark of the tree and slid down until he was nestled within its gnarled roots. Somehow, tucked away in this secret spot, it felt as if he had entered another world. One of those sacred places England always spoke about when his magical friends were mentioned. The land seemed to welcome him, slowly draining Matthew's pain and stress into the earth beneath and replacing them with a sense of peace. It couldn't erase the guilt Matthew harbored deep within his heart though, never entirely, no matter how much it seemed to want to try.

He dug his fingers into the dirt, focused on the grit beneath his nails, the dappled sunlight gently warming his face, the rough bark against his back. He tried to think of what to say but there was too much trying to escape all at once.

"It's been awhile hasn't it?" Matthew asked. "I'm sorry I haven't visited in so long. It's been three years, two months, and ten days since I last came. I've been working so much lately that I haven't been able to take any time off to see you." Matthew listened to the rustle of the leaves in the wind, the chittering of squirrels nesting high above his head. He imagined what his brother would say, how he'd react. He'd be irritated that Matthew had taken so long, but he would have still engulfed him in a hug, exclaiming about all the things that he'd been doing.

"But I just couldn't do it, not _today_ of all days. I don't even care if I'm blowing off work, it sucks anyways and nobody even knows I'm there. I'm sure you would hate doing all the work a country of your standing gets stuck with. You never did like being told what to do by others after all, England especially." Matthew's lips quirked up in fond remembrance of all the times Alfred would complain to Matthew about the chores that England would have him do, yet he never failed to finish them all- even when England was an ocean away.

"England is still a cranky gentleman and gets into fights with France constantly. They've made a little progress though; now they only get into two major fistfights a meeting rather than three."

He tried to think of anything else new that Alfred might want to know.

"Japan just released a new horror movie this month. I'm sure it would have made you laugh, you always did enjoy telling horror stories when it was your turn to tell the bedtime story. You two would have been good friends, I'm sure of it." Idly, Matthew rubbed his hand against the bark of a root, surprised with how smooth it had become after decades of weather beating upon it.

"Prussia still shows up at World Meetings from time to time, really just to annoy Germany more than anything I think. I think we all allow it since most of us still feel guilty that he no longer has his own people to represent.

"I'm just happy he's still here, he's one more connection that I have to you, the real you. I still can't believe you tried to roast marshmallows on your… your bay- well, you know, yet it's so _you_ that I know it's true."

Matthew thought back to when the decision had been made to dissolve Prussia. How Prussia had looked with pleading eyes upon America, practically begging him to step in and try to get the other Allies to see reason. Remembered, how America had simply turned his back on him without a glance and approved the dissolution, voice loud enough for the former nation to hear. Matthew knew, deep down, that had Alfred been there that perhaps Prussia would still exist on a world map, not slowly fading out of existence before their eyes.

Matthew swallowed hard, the thought of dissolution bringing back all the memories that he kept locked away in a chest buried deep within the darkest places of his mind in the hopes that they would never see the light of day again.

"H-hey, um, I went to the store before coming here and picked up something for us." Matthew reached for the plastic bag and dug around before pulling out an amber bottle. "It's rum, if you hadn't figured it out," he explained as he fiddled with the top. "I still remember when you convinced me that it would be cool to sneak down into the cellar and steal some of England's stash." He managed to get the top off and took a swig of it, choking slightly as the alcohol burned his throat.

"Ugh, it didn't taste good then either," he remarked. "Here, have some." He tipped the bottle and allowed a third of the liquid to spill out, watching quietly as it slowly sunk into the earth. He took another swig.

"I still don't really know how you got me to agree to do it. It was a horrible adventure and we both ended up getting sick from it. England thought we had food poisoning!" Matthew dumped the rest of the drink onto the ground before chucking the bottle off to the side. He'd pick it up on his way back.

"Actually, do you remember that one time when you got stuck up in a tree? I think it was just like this one, a big tall one that seemed to touch the sky. You found a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and climbed up the tree with it sitting on your head to where its nest was to put it back. But then you couldn't get back down and I had to get England to climb up and bring you down himself." Matthew laughed at the memory, the tone slightly hollow.

England had been furious with Alfred that day. Yet, the next morning found Alfred fast asleep on England's chest and it had been like nothing had happened the day before. He never could truly stay made with Alfred, not for long at least.

"I'm sure I told you this, but he did forgive you eventually for becoming independent," he said quietly. "It took awhile, you know how well he can hold a grudge, but he did finally accept that he had been in the wrong all those years ago. I just wish you had been there to hear it for yourself." The last part was said in a whisper as Matthew's eyes began to cloud over with tears.

There were too many things Alfred should have heard, too much that he should have experienced. He had always been full of life the moment they had come into this world. In the quiet of the early morning, when his insomnia kept him unable to escape into the dreamworld, Matthew wondered how different the world might have been if he hadn't stolen the light from those too blue eyes so soon.

Perhaps, he had robbed everyone of a better future.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly, a lone tear tracking down his cheek, though he was unsure of who exactly he was apologizing to.

Was it to Alfred?

Was it to the entire world?

Matthew didn't know.

He never meant for things to turn out this way. It had all happened too fast, yet at the same time it felt as if that moment had lasted for centuries.

…

He remembered being beyond angry, fury seeping out of him and turning the world red. Red and orange and yellow and blue; it manifested and burned down everything in its path. Who did he think he was? Did he truly believe that gaining independence gave him the right to look North and think 'mine'?

Did he not consider that Matthew would not immediately bow to his will, that perhaps he didn't want to separate from the British Empire? He was sure he was considering it now, but now was too late for Matthew. It had been too late since the day they torched York.

Smoke choked the air yet Matthew breathed it in deeply. He knew that with this England would be satisfied, his Empire's reputation preserved, yet it wasn't enough for Matthew. For him, this wasn't just a matter of pride. This was personal.

He stalked the streets of D.C., knowing that Alfred was still within its confines. England was convinced that he had fled with his President, but Matthew knew better. Alfred always put his people before himself and wouldn't leave until every last person had been safely evacuated.

He found himself near the outskirts of the city, assisting a young mother and her son. He could feel Matthew's hateful glare piercing his back and quickly ushered the family away before turning to face him.

"Matthew," he greeted evenly, a slight rasp to his voice from the smoke. Matthew noticed that he had no weapon on him. He was wearing civilian clothes. He also seemed a bit pale and ragged, but Matthew easily dismissed these thoughts.

"Alfred," he sneered. His grip tightened on his rifle.

"Matthew, you don't want to do this," Alfred warned, eyeing the rifle warily. He took a cautious step towards his brother. "You'll never forgive yourself."

(Oh how naive his brother had been, how trusting he had been even with a gun to his heart. It made what happened so much worse. Matthew wondered if he'd have felt less guilty if he had at least had a weapon on him. Something that would rationalize his actions towards his own brother.)

"I hardly care about forgiveness, mine or anyone else's," the Canadian shot back angrily. He hated how Alfred seemed to be talking down to him, as if he were somehow superior to Matthew. It made his blood boil.

"Matthew please, let's just talk about this," his brother continued, taking another step forward, his hands raised in the air to show that he meant no harm.

"I'm sure we can come to an understanding."

He stood right in front of him now, that megawatt smile that always used to make Matthew smile in return plastered onto his face. It made Matthew sick. Everything about Alfred made him sick. He was annoying and obnoxious and always trying to push others buttons just for kicks and giggles. It pissed Matthew off that while his brother was whiny and bratty that he was still the golden boy in the world's eye. Matthew was ignored, always standing in the shadow of Alfred's greatness.

He _hated_ it.

His hands seemed to move on their own accord, the bayonet arching through the air, the metal glowing in the chaotic light of the flames. He watched as Alfred's eyes widened in surprise before looking down, unable to comprehend the stain of red blossoming from his right collarbone to his left hip, how his guts were beginning to fall out.

Matthew watched with uncaring eyes as Alfred crumpled to the ground, his hands sluggishly trying to push everything back inside while a scarlet puddle grew beneath him.

"Mat...tie," he had gasped before falling silent, hands becoming limp and falling down to his sides. Matthew waited patiently for ten minutes before sighing and walking over to his brother's prone body. He watched for any signs of movement, of his chest rising and falling. While this wound would kill an average human, nations wouldn't die from such a wound. Even if the wound was severe they healed at incredibly rapid rates and in mere minutes it'd be like it had never happened in the first place. He didn't know why he stayed near him. After all when he awoke Alfred would be furious at him for it.

Still, he waited.

When another ten minutes had passed with no change Matthew begun to worry. Sure, perhaps he had cut Alfred a bit deeper than he should have, but he had just been so angry with him, he simply couldn't control it.

"Alfred. Hey Alfred, wake up already, eh?" Matthew shoved his shoulder lightly with the tip of his shoe. There was no response other than Alfred's head lolling to the side.

"Come on Alfred, this isn't funny anymore. Just get up already. Get up Alfred!"

Matthew was starting to panic now. He kicked Alfred a little harder but the response was still the same. He abandoned the rifle and got down on his knees in order to shake Alfred, the intensity of his movements growing with every minute Alfred remained lifeless.

"Goddammit Alfred get up already. I'm not in the mood for your pranks! Alfred do you even hear me? I said get up! Get up! Get up! _Get up!_ " Matthew was screaming at Alfred now, shaking him violently back and forth, hypersensitive to the fact that his hands were covered in his brother's blood, that his pants were becoming soaked with it.

What was happening? Why wasn't his brother waking up? Why was Alfred's heart still not beating?

His screams were incoherent now, his throat closing up and making proper speech impossible. He refused to accept that his brother might actually be truly dead. He refused, because if he accepted that then in turn he would have to accept that he was the one who killed him. He pressed his forehead against his brother's, startled to find it so cool to the touch. His brother had always been like a small furnace that Matthew had taken advantage of many times during the dead cold of winter when even he was chilled to the bone.

He felt hot tears track their way down his face before falling onto his brother's and rolling down his cheeks, as if he were crying alongside Matthew.

He could feel the truth of his actions creeping up on him, some small part of his mind realizing what he had done. The rest of him refused to believe and he forced himself to his feet and staggered away from the body. He wiped the tears from his eyes and replaced them with the stain of Alfred's blood.

"You're not dead," Matthew asserted, though even he could recognize how hollow his voice sounded. "You're just being an asshole and trying to make me feel bad. Well I'm not going to fall for it!" His body turned around and began to march back into the city while his mind howled at him to return to his brother's prone figure.

"He'll be just fine, just you wait. He's going to come back ten times as obnoxious as before, I can already tell." Matthew kept repeating this to himself as he walked past smoldering rubble.

The next day when Matthew returned to the spot where he'd struck his brother down, the body was still there- ice cold to the touch.

As he stared into those dull blue eyes, Matthew finally accepted what he had done, and allowed his world to shatter.

He stayed by the body all day and cried and screamed until his voice was hoarse and he had no more tears to shed. Two days later, Alfred's body was gone.

It just… disappeared.

The world seemed so dull without Alfred in it, as if someone had leached the color out of everything. There was no meaning in life for Matthew now. Yet every time he made a new hole, he could only watch in morbid fascination as his skin knit back together and made his body whole once again.

(He had asked England if nations could die. The island nation had given him a sharp look and Matthew was paralyzed by the fear that perhaps he knew of his unforgivable sin, but then the look faded as he explained to him that one must destroy the capital of the nation first, leaving the nation in question temporarily mortal. That was when one would strike and kill a nation, though few ever went that far. Simply burning their heart was enough. Matthew wondered if there was another reason why England hadn't searched for America that night.)

He met the new America two months later out on the streets. At first Matthew hadn't realized that this America was not his Alfred and had descended upon him in a frenzied panic, hope swelling in his chest that perhaps he had been wrong, that England had been wrong, and that Alfred had simply taken longer to heal than other nations normally did. However, this America merely glanced at Matthew in confusion and asked if he knew him. His throat had constricted too tightly to allow anything beyond a pained whimper and then America was rushing off somewhere else, not even sparing a glance behind him.

(And looking back now it was so apparent that this new America was not his Alfred, everything about him had been so _wrong_ yet he had hoped. Oh, how he had hoped.)

That was when Matthew truly realized that he had lost everything.

A year passed before Matthew finally convinced himself to visit the place where Alfred had faded. He was surprised to find the entire area unmarred except for a lone sapling growing where Alfred's body had once lain. Perplexed as to why the area hadn't been touched, Matthew asked one of the locals.

"Hm? Oh you mean where that young sapling is? Yes well, it's quite strange but nobody seems to want to develop the land there. Somehow it feels… wrong. They were thinking about building a park around it."

The next day he returned with a small knife and carved Alfred's initials into the bark of the tree, not enough to hurt but enough that it would last.

After all, he wanted Alfred to at least have a proper grave marker.

…

Matthew felt the wind caress his face gently, as if trying to comfort him in his never ending misery. He imagined the wind was Alfred's hand carding through his hair, like he used to do when they were little and Matthew needed comfort, and cried even harder.

"Look at me, it's been centuries and I'm still such a pathetic mess," Matthew sobbed. "God, I've never regretted something so much in my life. I should have been the one to die between the two of us, never you. Never ever you. I… I miss you so much that sometimes I just can't take it. I see those eyes, h-hear that voice constantly, but it's all _wrong_. It's not your eyes or your voice, it's _his_ and I can't stand it! He calls himself Alfred but he's not _my_ Alfred, not _my_ Alfie." Matthew curled in on himself, hands pulling savagely at his clothes, his hair, anything they could rip apart.

"I feel so alone and nobody understands. I h-hate you because I love you and I can't make myself stop. Someone please make it stop. It hurts too much."

Unseen by the blond curled up against the tree a shimmering apparition sat silently beside him. He wore ancient clothes that were covered in blood, still smelling faintly of smoke. His hair rustled in an invisible breeze as he looked down at nation beside him with eyes that seemed too old and world weary to be placed on such a youthful face. He reached out and tried to brush the tears away, watching as once again his hand slipped right through

"I'm sorry Mattie," he whispered, aware that his words would fall on deaf ears as they had for centuries. "You're not alone. You'll never be alone because I'll always be watching over you. Please Mattie, please stop crying. It hurts when I see you in pain. Please stop hurting yourself. I forgive you. You didn't know, neither of us knew. I love you and nothing will ever change that.

"Please… just stop crying. It hurts too much."


End file.
